Outlaw, page 30
‘You think this is for money, you preening shit?’ He planted a savage punch in Da Silvio’s side. ‘You think money makes everything go away?’
The Italian held up his hands to ward off any more blows, but it was a futile gesture. Chumak had two of his men drag Da Silvio to his feet and pin him to the side of the scissor jack by his arms. The criminal stalked back and forth in front of him like a caged tiger.
‘You sell me out to the cops, eh?’ He waved the gun around. ‘You come to Sochi, you build your flashy hotel for your Eurotrash friends . . .’ He spat on the ground. ‘You do that and you try to fuck me?’
‘I have no idea . . . what you are talking about,’ managed Da Silvio. ‘Can you not see? Glovkonin knows how to anger you. He’s lied about this so you will end me for him.’
As the words spilled out, the awful reality of it bedded in.
He had always suspected the Russian as capable of great deceit, but to do something like this, so openly – to make such a naked grab for power . . . It was not how the Combine operated. It was vulgar, it was beneath men of their stature. In doing this, Glovkonin revealed himself to be what Da Silvio had always thought of him – an unrefined man with a street thug’s sensibility, no better than a common criminal like Chumak.
This certainty brought no satisfaction, however.
‘I saw the pictures,’ growled Chumak. ‘I heard what you said!’
‘Fakes,’ insisted Da Silvio. He had to believe, if he could keep the man talking long enough, his people would arrive and save him from this indignity. ‘You are not a fool. Why do you let Glovkonin use you?’
The criminal fell silent, kneading the butt of the silenced pistol in his hand. When he spoke again, his rage had ebbed, reforming into a low, predatory mutter.
‘You think I’m a dull brute. Risen to my status by violence, not by brains. You are right. But I have instinct, yes? Like animals know the scent of those from the same place. You stink of money and disrespect.’ He prodded Da Silvio with the barrel of his gun. ‘Look at me!’
The Italian raised his head, meeting Chumak’s gaze. The criminal’s deep-set, piggish eyes were dark with murder.
‘Maybe the pictures tell a lie.’ Chumak shrugged. ‘Maybe they don’t. I do nothing about it, I am seen as weak.’ He pressed the pistol to Da Silvio’s forehead. ‘It doesn’t matter. I never liked you. This gives me an excuse.’
The Italian’s body jerked backwards as the gun barked, but the howl of jets swallowed the weapon’s report as the Gulfstream left the runway, and sped into the sky.
*
Marc cried out as the boat sank from view. In that second, his sole impulse was to throw himself through the cockpit, out into the waves and after his friends.
If only the 226 had float pontoons . . . If only he could land it safely on the water . . .
Two figures rose out of the churn, back into the sunlight. Lucy moved, pulling weakly at her helmet to throw it away, while Malte held her up against the motion of the waves. The Finn waved at Marc and, with another surge of relief, he returned the gesture.
Working the controls, Marc guided the helicopter over to them and felt the craft shift as Lucy and Malte hooked up to the trailing end of the winch. He flicked the switch to reel them in, at the same time gently ascending.
A thumb-sized hole blew through the curved canopy panel near his face and tiny fragments of plastic skipped off his cheek, drawing blood. The impact made him curse loudly and he flinched, dragging the helicopter backwards as his hand jerked on the stick. A second impact struck the metal hull of the 226 with a dull clank, and this time he saw a flash of muzzle flare.
A Zodiac-type rigid inflatable boat approached the wrecks from the direction of the race complex. While the craft had the word RESCUE written down the hull in orange letters in both English and Cyrillic, the weapon in the hand of the man at the bow showed the true reason for its arrival. Marc had a pistol of his own in a paddle holster, but he was hardly in the best position to draw it and start a gunfight.
‘Hang on!’ he yelled, although Malte and Lucy would not be able to hear him.
Escape was the smarter choice, he reasoned, and with that Marc pulled the 226 up and away, pointing it back towards dry land.
The sluggish aircraft dragged the weight of two adult bodies through the air behind it, but no more rounds hit the 226 as it put distance between itself and the ersatz rescue boat.
The helicopter rocked as the winch brought Malte and Lucy up, and they scrambled inside, gasping and shaking with effort. Marc shot a look over his shoulder and saw the Finn tending to her. She looked shaky and her skin had a sallowness to it. He couldn’t help but wonder how close she had come to drowning.
Once they were over land Marc flew low, staying just above treetop level. He aimed the 226 away from the populated areas, taking a wide path around the edges of Sochi that would eventually lead them back towards the old school.
At length, Lucy pushed up into the empty co-pilot’s seat and sat heavily. She glared at Marc, and then punched him in the bicep.
‘Dumbass limey!’
‘You’re fucking welcome,’ he shot back.
‘You dumped the mission, didn’t you? Shit.’ She banged the back of her skull against the headrest in frustration. ‘You came after me . . . You should have—’
‘Don’t tell me I was supposed to leave you out there,’ he snarled. ‘Do not say that to me.’
‘How we gonna find that shit now?’ She shook her head. ‘Thanks, okay? But . . .’ Lucy looked away. ‘The trade wasn’t worth it.’
‘Bollocks to that.’ Marc fixed his gaze out through the canopy. ‘I do not trade life for life. We do not do that.’ He paused, his tone softening. ‘And if you think this is because of what happened . . . between us . . . you’re wrong. I would have gone back for anyone on the team.’
‘Even Grace?’
That was a low blow, given Marc’s particular history with the amoral undercover operative, but at length, he nodded.
‘Yeah. Even her.’
Lucy’s lip curled. ‘You’d be as pissed off as me if it was the other way around,’ she countered.
‘No doubt,’ agreed Marc. ‘Doesn’t mean it was the wrong call.’
Lucy let out a long breath that turned into a racking cough. She recovered after a moment and drew her long-fingered hands down over her face.
‘What do we do now?’
‘We’ll find another way through this,’ he told her.
*
It was poor tradecraft for Solomon, Delancort and Benjamin to travel on the same flight from Croatia, but time pressure forced them to cut corners and take the risk. Under snap cover identities pitching them respectively as a Kenyan pastor, a French business consultant and a Belgian personal trainer, the three men arrived on the midday Turkish Airlines arrival at Istanbul Airport, and gathered quietly in a rented VW Tiguan.
A three-hour drive took them from the European side of Istanbul to the technology park where Altin Elma’s facility was located, across the Bosphorus strait via the Fatih Sultan Mehmet suspension bridge. High winds buffeted the silver SUV as Benjamin guided the vehicle over the span, heading steadily southwards and into landfall in Anatolia. Dull, hazy clouds lying low over the landscape robbed the view of its grandeur, and they pushed on through a sporadic drizzle.
Benjamin could not escape the gloom that had settled on him following their departure from Zagreb, and the weather reflected the Frenchman’s mood. He felt responsible for the girl they had left behind, with the shattered pieces of her old life and the prospect of an unknown future in front of her. Rumiko Saito deserved better than to be collateral damage because of her father’s bad choices, but her situation was not a new one to Benjamin.
After he had left the Légion étrangère to find a different path, Benjamin Harun had made a promise to himself that he would do as much as he could in his remaining years to help people in pain, instead of causing it. He didn’t realise at the time that the courage he had shown under fire in combat was a very different strength from the one needed by a counsellor, a healer. But he learned quickly.
Since putting down his gun, Benjamin had come to understand that there were battles going on in every person’s life, most of them invisible to the eye. Many wounds and scars were deep in the spirit, and difficult to reach.
Rumiko was walking wounded, in her own way, and it troubled Benjamin that he was partly to blame for dismantling the happy, oblivious existence she had been living in Vienna; but ultimately, knowing the truth had set her free, and he took some small comfort in that.
He tried to put his thoughts aside, but he could not. For years, Benjamin had worked with the Rubicon Group as a trauma specialist and therapist, helping Solomon’s people navigate the difficult and often brutal realities of their mission. He had left ‘the field’ behind, but when Rubicon collapsed in the wake of a hostile takeover, that life was taken away from him.
Benjamin no longer had the luxury of remaining on the sidelines. Worst of all, he knew that part of him missed the old days. The weight of a weapon in his hand, the rush of adrenaline before a parachute jump or a sortie . . . those were seductive, in their own way. It made it hard for him to keep to his vow.
His bag lay in the SUV’s footwell. Hidden in a compartment within it, shielded to avoid detection by airport security scanners, were a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol and two clips of ammunition. He knew the gun intimately, but he had sworn that he would never use one again in anger.
He could not escape the sense that some day soon, he would break that vow as well.
They left the highway for the local roads, but as the SUV approached the outskirts of the technology park, Benjamin stopped abruptly as crimson lights strobed brightly in his rear-view mirror. Sirens hooted as a pair of red and white fire engines hurtled past, quickly followed by an ambulance. The ill feeling in his chest tightened a few notches.
‘Look there.’
From the back seat, Delancort leaned forward and pointed towards the cluster of low, blocky buildings forming the centre of the development. A wispy dome of black smoke rose from the far side of the complex.
‘You think . . .?’ Benjamin didn’t want to finish his sentence.
‘Get us there,’ said Solomon, tapping him on the shoulder. ‘Quickly.’
He nodded, accelerating after the emergency vehicles. A second ambulance powered past them as they turned around the main buildings and on to the approach to the Altin Elma facility.
The tech lab was a two-storey brick of sand-coloured concrete at the end of a cul-de-sac, the entrance dominated by a sculpture in brass and bronze, meant to suggest the shape of a golden apple. A flat metal roof had already caved in across several sections, allowing more black smoke to escape into the wet air. The western end of the Altin Elma building was the core of a raging fire, and orange flames coiled through broken windows in the concrete walls.
Benjamin parked the SUV on the far side of the street, upwind of the blaze. The fire engines had joined two more appliances, and firefighters in heavy flame-resistant gear had their hoses turned on the inferno, working to beat it down.
‘We’re too late,’ muttered Solomon. ‘The Combine are cutting away their loose ends.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Delancort ventured. He indicated the parked ambulances, where uniformed paramedics worked on a cluster of smoke-blackened figures shrouded in silver foil blankets. ‘There are survivors.’
Benjamin studied the faces of the Altin Elma workers and technicians, some of them weeping, others elated to be alive, but most of them forlornly coming to terms with the fact that their lives had been brutally upended.
‘Sir.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Stay in the vehicle. We’ll check out the situation.’
Solomon’s expression suggested he wanted to protest, but he chose not to.
‘Very well.’
He knew as well as anyone that if recognised, his appearance here would lead to difficult questions. It had been many months since the release of the faked footage that led the world to believe Rubicon was a sponsor of terrorism, but people had long memories, and Solomon was a memorable man.
Benjamin beckoned to Delancort, and the two of them exited the vehicle. He left the gun behind, and fell in step, letting Delancort take the lead.
‘Do you have a plan?’ said the other man.
‘I let you do the talking,’ said Benjamin.
‘Not helpful.’ Delancort cast around, taking in the scene. ‘So, do we play good cop and bad cop, like in the movies?’
Benjamin sniffed. ‘Why don’t we both be a good man for a change?’
There were a few more vehicles outside a perimeter of hastily deployed warning tape, and people from the other buildings in the park were gathering to watch the unfolding drama. Inside the line stood a single police cruiser and a harried-looking junior officer holding the cordon.
Delancort drew himself up, adopting an air of seriousness, and walked straight across to the policeman.
‘What happened? Is the site manager still in there?’
The police officer blinked at his insistent tone, answering before he realised it.
‘We are still trying to determine that. The manager . . .’ He caught up to himself and held out a hand, drawing the attention of some of the survivors. ‘Please step back. This is an active scene!’
‘Monsieur Delancort?’ A portly man in a torn shirt called out from the group near the ambulances, and he crossed to them, dragging his foil blanket with him. He was in his mid-fifties and balding, with an avuncular face. ‘Good grief, you are here! I don’t believe it, on such a day . . .’
‘Yes.’ Delancort rolled with it, although it was clear to Benjamin that Solomon’s aide had no idea who the man in the shirt was. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Allah protects,’ he said, with a shaky breath. ‘Some were less fortunate than I.’
The portly man convinced the police officer to let them step under the tape, and he quickly pulled them aside. Benjamin noticed a pass clipped to the man’s pocket that identified him as Burak Yerli, one of Altin Elma’s senior technicians, and discreetly indicated it to Delancort.
‘Mr Yerli, I am so glad you are safe,’ said Delancort. ‘But please, forgive me if I do not recall, have we met before?’
Yerli sat heavily on a low wall near the parking bays, and coughed into his hand.
‘No, no, but I know you, sir. Everyone at Altin Elma does, it is your signature on the bottom of the authorisations we receive from Rubicon! Without your support, without the project, we would never have been able . . .’ He trailed off, his gaze drifting back to the burning building. His mood shifted and his voice thickened. ‘Oh, my life. Our work. It’s ruined. What will we do?’
‘You are alive, my friend.’ Benjamin saw a man in fear and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘That is what matters.’
‘Yes, yes . . .’ Yerli stared down at the ground, and tears fell from his cheeks to the asphalt at his feet. He rubbed his face and composed himself. ‘I had no idea you were coming . . .’
‘A last-minute change of plans,’ said Delancort, improvising a reply. ‘We hoped to meet with your superiors to compliment your team on their diligence regarding the . . . ah . . . project.’
Yerli’s head jerked up suddenly, and he waved at the building.
‘The unit is not in there, do not worry.’ The flames had taken hold despite the best efforts of the fire crews, and from inside the walls came the cracking sounds of heat-shattered glass and fracturing concrete. ‘It shipped out two days ago . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Months of work . . . If we had lost that as well . . .’
‘Shipped to where?’ said Benjamin.
Yerli gave him a confused glance. ‘To America, of course, as requested by the Monaco office.’ He looked back to Delancort. ‘The recipient in New York City. Is that not correct?’
‘Quite correct,’ agreed Delancort. ‘As you say, a piece of good fortune. Rest assured, Rubicon will do all they can to support Altin Elma through this tragedy.’
That was a soothing lie, of course. The Rubicon Group per se no longer existed, but Yerli appeared unaware of that fact.
Benjamin gave his colleague a silent look. They were both thinking the same thing. It appeared that the team at this facility had been working to orders from the Combine, filtered through the gutted remnants of Rubicon’s corporate structure. But what exactly had they been assembling for them?
‘Mr Yerli,’ Benjamin began, pitching his tone towards the conspiratorial. ‘Do you know how this fire began?’
‘No, no . . .’ The man shook his head. ‘We were finishing the close-down of production, standard protocol after the completion of a project . . .’ His eyes misted again. ‘There was some commotion in the server room. I heard some loud bangs . . . Then the alarms sounded and we moved to evacuate.’ He took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. ‘The fire was at our heels! I don’t understand how it could have moved so swiftly . . . The sprinkler system failed to activate!’
Benjamin gave Delancort a subtle nod, directing him to pick up the thread.
‘Did anything unusual happen today, before the fire began? Did you see anyone suspicious in the facility?’
‘No . . .’ Yerli frowned. ‘Are you suggesting . . . someone did this deliberately?’ He paled. ‘Eight of our staff are still missing!’
Benjamin saw an opportunity to direct the conversation.
‘What do you know about the project?’
‘Everything.’ Yerli gave him an odd look. ‘I was systems lead on the assembly.’
‘My colleague has not been fully briefed,’ Delancort said smoothly. ‘Perhaps you could precis the unit’s functions for him? I’m sure you would do a far better job than I.’
‘All right . . .’ Yerli took another shaky breath. ‘In basic terms, the unit is an interrupt, designed to isolate a large-scale computer network at a key nexus.’ He made shapes in the air with his hands. ‘Imagine it as a digital emergency stop. You can halt the flow of data transmission in the event of a crisis.’
